Taking a little journey back into his life, Cring cautions concerning the dangers of trying to live off of what you see–instead of energizing your efforts into a lifestyle of seeking.

TRANSCRIPT

His mustache seemed to curl and creep across his upper lip like a dark brown, furry caterpillar.

He was definitely Caucasian—I’ve never seen whiter skin anywhere. His hair was dark brown, but separated into strands, refusing to be combed into a tight, military unit. There was always one thicker piece that fell down on his forehead resembling a bang. His voice was nasally and monotone.

But he was a sweet man, and I wish to God that I could tell you that he liked me.

He didn’t. He didn’t because I never paid my rent.

I leased an apartment above his drugstore and our little family was not only noisy, but derelict
Yes, derelict in the duty of paying our way.

I was so embarrassed that I tried to hide from him. I attempted to leave very early in the morning or very late at night, so as not to encounter him. You see, the doorway to his office sat adjacent to the passageway leading to the stairway to my home.

Oh, God. It was so ugly, I can’t even think about it. My skin crawls when I recall the excuses I made to that man.

I’m sure he thought I was gonna end up in jail—maybe a serial killer—renting apartments all across the United States, and every first of the month, killing the owner before moving on, so as not to risk getting a bad recommendation at the next spot.

He was so sweet to me. At least he tried to be.

It was even worse when he went on a skiing trip and broke both of his legs. Yes, both. I’m not sure how you even do that. But for four months he was laid up and could only sit in that back room—next to my entrance.

I tried to walk quietly down those stairs. Sometimes I scooted on my butt. He almost always caught me.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to be a nudge, but do you have any money for the rent?”

I didn’t.

I didn’t have any money because I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a job because I had a dream.

But it seemed that my dream had skedaddled off into the distance, and I couldn’t find it anywhere. What I saw scared the hell out of me. I was too young, too married, with too many kids, too many bills and too many critics.

That’s what I saw. Everywhere I looked, that’s what was in front of my peepers.

All I could hear in my head were the complaints about my laziness, my irresponsibility.

I started to give up. It’s a process, you know. Giving up isn’t just one time. It’s a hundred of them piled on top of each other, so that your hope can’t breathe anymore.

It made sense to give up.

Here’s my landlord—with two broken legs—sweetest guy you’d ever want to meet. And I’m cheating him out of… I don’t know. Leg cream.

The electric company was mad at me.

The waterworks just shut me off at will.

I was broke. That’s what I could see. That’s all I could see.

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Everything was hiding from me, and if it wasn’t hiding from me, people were hiding things because they didn’t want to encourage me in what they believed to be a fool’s errand.

Do you know what the worst thing in the world to feel is?

Feeling sick is pretty bad.

Feeling poor sucks.

But feeling you have talent and having no way to prove it makes you look like an idiot who also just happens to be insane.

It was all hidden. It was all hidden away from me.

I was going crazy on what I could see. After all, it was foolish to deny what I saw. I had talked to some of those people. You know:

Mind over matter: “Don’t look at that problem over there and it will go away.”

Ridiculous. I knew that was crap.

But to take in a daily vision of defeat and destitution was making me feel like shit all the time.

If I shared with anyone, they would come back with the encouraging thought: “You should feel like shit. You’re not taking care of your family.”

But you see, here was my problem. I met people who wanted to do something with their lives, but all they could see was their own personal load to carry. So they promised themselves they would chase their dream “on their own time.”

You know—AFTER work.

But after work was filled with dinner, exhaustion and kids crawling up on your lap to watch TV.

So should you stay up all night? And what are you supposed to do in the middle of the night anyway?

Doesn’t business happen in the middle of the day—that’s why you have a job in the first place?

I was scared to death. I was frightened of becoming a joke to my hometown, but also being a punchline to myself.

I imagined twenty years passing away, and my dreams producing a chuckle from those around me: “Do you remember when you thought you were gonna be…?”

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Cruel laughter.

Then it occurred to me. I don’t know whether it occurred or I learned. Maybe I didn’t learn—maybe I was inspired. But something decided to give me an idea. Here it was:

If I put as many hours each day in to seeking instead of just seeing, eventually I would find. What would I find? I had no idea.

But the truth of the matter is, and always will be, if you have a dream and you’ve practiced and you’ve sharpened your ability, and you seek, you more than likely will get an opportunity, even if

it’s not a break.

It took less than a year.

I won some talent contests with my group.

One of my songs got signed by a national act.

I did some television.

I didn’t make a lot of money at first, but my critics stopped jabbering. The landlord was impressed.

And a little money came in so we could keep the lights on and find the water faucet.

Seeing is not seeking.

Merely gazing across the horizon and viewing the angels and demons lined up before you, and trying to make a decision, leaves you vacant of using your greatest weapon: Your passionate perseverance.

I never worked a regular job. Oh, once or twice to pick up a little extra cash during the holidays.

But I have spent my entire life chasing a vision, catching it, and then releasing it and giving it a head start so I could chase it again.

So the good news is, seeing may be believing, but seeking is retrieving.

And the better news is, it’s finding instead of
settling for what is offered.

About Author

Jonathan Cring

Our story is told from where we begin. For Jonathan Richard Cring, this was music. First he sang songs, played songs and then one day it occurred to him that he might like to write one. He actually wrote two that morning and rather enjoyed it. This opened the door to people recording his music, ending up in Nashville, Tennessee, with a contract. Having read a book, he had an itch to write one. The first one was small. It was called "The Gospel According to Common Sense." But fourteen books later, he has accumulated a considerable journal of his journey and heart. In the process, he had four sons and was godfather to three others. One of these young men wanted to be a filmmaker. Scripts were required, so Papa Cring wrote thirteen screenplays which ended up being produced into independent feature-length films which won awards at twenty-eight film festivals. While perusing websites for his movie career, Jonathan discovered blogs. He decided to write one and called it Jonathots Daily Blog. That was in 2008. Thousands and thousands of entries, which extended to additional blog categories--one called Jonathots, Jr.--pictures with euphemisms, and Words from Dic(tionary)--taking the Webster classic in its alphabetical order, and writing mostly comical essays on each word. Sitting around the table at Christmas time, his children encouraged him to begin a podcast. In 2018, he began one called Good News and Better News. It is a content-filled tongue-in-cheek look at American culture with the contention that life really doesn't suck. Bouncing off what has been done while discovering what is available has created the arc of the career for Jonathan Richard Cring.
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